Shattered Glass
by Liathwen
Summary: A Sherlolly Beauty and the Beast Au - I'm crap at summaries lol
1. Molly

**A billion thanks to the lovely AllTheBellsInVenice for HEAVY editing on the beginning of this chapter and tons of ideas! Also, thanks so much to Lisa and Miz-Joely for listening to my crazy ideas at all hours of the day and night and giving me quite a few of those ideas! I love all you ladies!**

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"Once upon a time, a good king and queen had two brilliant sons. These princes could solve any puzzle, but alas, their hearts were cold as ice. When war came to the kingdom, it soon fell to the elder prince to hold the line against the enemy. But before departing, he sent a fairy to watch over his brother, who was too young to ride into battle.

This young prince did no evil, but his loveless heart cared only for his puzzles. As he grew into beauty, the watching fairy began to lust after the young prince, and saw that the war went badly. She knew that if the young prince would only marry her, she could take the kingdom for herself.

The clever fairy used all her wiles on the young prince, showing him that she was not only beautiful, but just as brilliant as he. His eyes dazzled, the prince told the fairy a secret plan, known only to himself and the elder prince, to defeat the great enemy. The fairy saw her chance and told the great enemy the plan, hoping that the elder brother would die in the battle. Soon after, a messenger came with terrible news. The elder prince still lived, but the battle was lost. Thus it game to pass that the young prince saw the fairy's treachery.

When she saw the prince's anger, the fairy begged him to forgive and protect her, for a greater evil now hunted her. But he refused, and in a fury he banished her from the kingdom. In revenge, the evil fairy set a curse upon the young prince, turning him into a beast as loathsome as he had once been beautiful. She told the poor prince that she would break the curse if only he would marry her and make her queen. Still the prince refused her, and it is said that to this day he hides his ugliness all alone in the castle, where the evil fairy forever holds him captive."

Molly Hooper snapped the book shut and smiled down at the children staring up at her in rapt attention.

"Now run along or your parents will be upset with me for keeping you so long!" she laughed at their comedic disappointment and promised to read for them again very soon.

As the last of her little audience scampered away, Molly shook her head, chuckling to herself, and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear before reopening the book.

It was a worn volume, despite the lack of interest in literature most of the citizens of her small village displayed. Of course, most of the wear and tear had come from Molly herself. It was her favorite book offered for borrow by the tiny bookstore tucked into a corner of a dilapidated building just off the village square. She could just see it from her position seated on the stone surround of the old fountain in the middle of the square. The running of the water behind her soothed out the clamorous sounds of the villagers bustling back and forth completing their daily tasks and doing a fair bit of gossip along the way, as per the usual.

Of course, the most common subject of gossip was Molly herself, and her father. They seemed to be the go to subject when the nosy women of the town had nothing else to cluck about. Molly read too much, it gave her ideas that her father encouraged. It wasn't right for a woman to be interested in the subjects Molly liked either. All that stuff about science and bodies and death. It just wasn't natural.

She knew they'd seen her reading science manuals and books on the human body which was terribly abnormal for a young woman. Deep inside, she thought she was probably more knowledgeable than the pathetic excuse for a doctor who lived on the outskirts of town. She might not have the hands on experience, but she practically had the three anatomy books she had access to memorized she'd read them so many times.

It didn't help that she was a pretty girl. She didn't think of herself as such, when she thought of her looks at all, but she was. Her long honey colored hair was thick and shiny, hanging down to her waist when loose, but almost always wound into a plait around her head to keep it out of the way of her work. Her figure was small, petite, but strong from helping her father with the work on their small farm. Her dark brown eyes were large in her delicate face, the rest of her features small in comparison. If she had been "normal" by the village's standards, she'd have been married off long ago. She was nearly twenty-three, old in terms of eligibility, but her father had not sought a husband for her, a fact for which she was infinitely grateful, having found no one of interest in her town.

They were all idiots. She cringed at her mean thoughts, but recognized them for the truth. They were simple, uninterested in life outside of the confines of the village, or in educating themselves. Not like the men in her books. Brilliant.

She smiled down at the pages of the book she currently held. This one was the best. A collection of fairy tales, handwritten on thick parchment pages. The ink was splotchy in places, and the writing spidery and thin, but the words filled her mind's eye with faraway places and daring deeds. She made a point to read aloud to the village children as often as their parents would let them listen to her and she almost always chose one of the many tales chronicled in the thick book for them.

Molly looked up as a cart passed too close to her, startling the petite woman out of her reverie. She frowned, annoyed at the interruption of her contemplation of the pages spread in her lap.

Ah well, her father was due to come home soon and she needed to get back to their home just outside the village and cook for him. He'd no doubt appreciate a warm supper waiting for him when he arrived from his long trip.

She hopped up, smoothing her skirts and clutched the tome in her slim arms, pulling it tightly to her chest as she set off towards home.

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**Lemme know what you think!**


	2. Beast

**Thanks so much for the enthusiastic response to this fic. I DO need to get this out though; this is NOT a disney fic. It's going to be fluffy, it's not going to be cute. Well there will be pieces of it that are. The point is that this is based on the actual fairy tale and will contain some dark stuff. I just don't want to disappoint anyone who comes looking for disney. This is FAR from a cartoon.**

**Ok, that being said, I hope you like this if you choose to stick around.**

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He was lost.

Matthias Hooper had to admit it. Darkness was swiftly approaching, and he had been wandering about in the forest for hours with no idea as to where he was.

He cursed under his breath at his folly, straying from the road in search of a mythical castle, merely to satisfy his curiosity. He cursed the stranger in the pub, plying him with drink and relating the tale of the Beast and his untold wealth. If he'd been sober he might had recognized it for the folk tale that it was, one that his beloved daughter Molly had read to him in front of the fireplace of their cottage outside of town.

Instead, he'd gone in search of the castle, listening to the directions from the stranger in the expensive clothes. He had obviously been of the upper class, but had been keen on not being recognized. That much was obvious from the cloak and hood carefully arranged to keep his face hidden from all except Matthias. Why he'd bothered with the small, dank pub in the first place, Hooper couldn't possibly imagine. Why he bothered to engage the lower class man in conversation was another mystery, along with what he could possibly hope to gain from Matthias' imminent demise.

He shivered, looking around once more at the forest, shadows growing in the lateness of the hour. It was pleasant enough during the day, in the warm sun, but the nights were still chilly and Matthias hadn't thought to take a warmer cloak, never dreaming he'd be so foolish as to stray.

He tripped over a branch and stumbled, falling and spilling the contents of his small pack onto the ground, mixing the trinkets he'd brought from the port to sell in his town with the dead leaves and dirt. This time, an audible curse escaped him. He scrambled to replace his possessions into his bundle, but slowed his movements when his fingers brushed against something other than the cool earth. Eyes narrowed, Matthias studied the ground and brushed lightly at it.

Hidden under the layer of fallen debris and soil was a stone pathway. His eyes widened and he looked up in the direction it went. Now that he'd noticed it, the walk was rather obvious due to the lack of trees in the path. He shouldered his pack once more and set off down the way, checking occasionally to make sure he remained on the walk.

It was fully dark by the time he reached the huge metal gate set into the high stone walls. It was rusted from the elements, but opened easily, indicating at least some use recently. As he passed through and caught sight of the castle, Matthias caught his breath.

The building was a huge one, made of grey stone. The glow from the moon bathed the whole place in an eerie half-light with shadows creeping across the grass like fingers reaching for him. He shuddered, focusing on the castle and breathed a relieved sigh when he spotted the glow of candlelight within. He crossed the massive lawn quickly, weaving around the cultivated areas, unable to discern exactly what was growing there in the dimness of night.

Upon reaching the door, Matthias paused before knocking, memories of the warnings from the stranger flitting through his mind.

_The Beast does not suffer fools, do not anger him._

Hooper shook his head vigorously, reminding himself it was just a tale and he'd most likely find a very normal, very human person behind the massive oaken door. Drawing up his courage, he rapped on it, cringing as the sound echoed in the stillness around him.

The door opened, creaking ominously on its unoiled hinges and Matthias gulped. There was no sign of a person who could have opened the door, and, had it not been for the near guarantee of death, he'd had turned tail and run right then, folk tale or not.

He cleared his throat nervously and moved into the foyer of the castle, noting with some surprise that it appeared to be clean and well-kept. He breathed a small sigh of relief, surely no Beast would take such care of his abode. Matthias sniffed deeply, the enticing scent of a hot dinner hitting his nostrils. He followed it to a room just to the side of a colossal staircase which was situated at the far end of the foyer he'd entered. Pushing the wooden door open slowly, Matthias was greeted by the sight of a large dining table and chairs in the middle of a richly appointed room. The rugs were of a deep wine color and the chairs were of an ivory with gold brocade. Flames licked the edge of the elegant stone fireplace, warming the room with heat and light. At one end of the long oval table, a place was set and food steamed on plates of china, the colors matching the sophisticated chairs situated around the table top.

Matthias looked around for a moment, unsure of what to do, but after hearing nothing for some time, he cautiously approached the delicious smelling feast and looked down at it. Roast chicken, a loaf of freshly baked bread, vegetable dishes, a glass of water and another of a rich red wine; his mouth watered. He pulled back the chair and seated himself, looking around one more time before gingerly picking up a piece of the chicken and taking a bite.

He hummed in appreciation of the marvelous taste of the dish and dug into the rest of the food. It was far richer than that which he could afford and he felt a pang of guilt that he was enjoying it while his beautiful daughter was no doubt worrying herself sick over her father's failure to arrive when he had promised.

There was nothing he could do that night though, and he knew it, so Matthias ate his fill before leaving the room and looking through several doors, searching for a bed. He finally found one, and collapsed on it, too exhausted to remove any more clothing than his boots.

As he drifted off to sleep, he could've sworn he heard the low rumble of a growl.

He awoke the next morning when the cheerful rays of sunshine fell across his face where he lay stretched across the bed on his back.

Matthias rubbed the sleep from his eyes and looked around blearily. He was in a guest room, which was lavishly furnished and clean but appeared to not have been used for an age. His brow furrowed. Whoever lived here was obviously not fond of company.

With that thought in mind, he decided it was high time to be going. He still wasn't entirely sure where he was and he needed to get home to his Molly, who was probably going out of her mind with worry by now.

Matthias stood and pulled on his boots one at a time before shouldering his pack once more and heading out the door to the hall. He followed it to the foyer and out the massive front door, which he closed securely behind him. He started through the well-kept front lawn but paused when he looked to his right and caught a glimpse of a spectacular rose garden through a gap in the wall.

He glanced back at the iron gate with indecision before trotting over to the rose garden, slipping through the much smaller gap in the wall into a spacious area. It too was lined with stone, but not quite as high as the walls around the main castle. There were quite possibly thousands of brightly colored flowers blooming, their different colors a stark contrast to the greenery and stone paths, filling the air with an intoxicating scent.

Matthias smiled to himself. Molly would love it if he took her a few, so he pulled out his small blade and proceeded to walk through the garden, looking for the perfect ones. He cut five and was searching for the sixth when he passed close to the shadowy corner of the garden up next to the wall of the castle.

Matthias heard a loud growl and was suddenly snatched up by the scruff of the neck and turned in midair, his back slamming painfully against the rough stone of the walls. He gasped from the lack of air as it was forced from his lungs and his eyes opened wide with shock and terror. Another feral growl sounded and his only thought as he looked down was that he would have been better off spending the night in the woods.

Sherlock bared his teeth at the unwelcome intruder, a low roar issuing from his throat. The man was terrified, he could smell it.

_Good, he shouldn't be here._

He opened his hand, taking the pressure off of the throat, letting the man catch a breath before he let go completely and dropped him to the ground.

"You are unwelcome here," he growled out, baring his teeth again, his eyes blazing with fury. "What is your excuse for your presence?"

The man stuttered and Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Really, he wasn't that intimidating once you really looked at him. In this form, he was maybe seven feet tall, his shoulders broad and muscular, every inch of his body covered in thick hair of a deep brown color. His eyes were amber colored with flecks of icy blue and sea green, set into an animal-esque face. His teeth were elongated, his canines almost fangs, and overall, he looked somewhat like a very large wolf or what people might envision a werewolf to look like.

So the title Beast suited him well.

"How shall I punish you for your intrusion into my solitude?" he asked dangerously, and smirked inwardly when the man began to beg and plead his innocence in the matter.

Sherlock growled again at the shaking man, his mind roving over what he could see of the man's life from observing him.

He almost sighed with boredom. His prisoner was a simple merchant, and not even a wealthy one at that. He was widowed, that much was obvious from his cloak, which had been darned several times but not well, not to the level of a housewife. Sherlock's eyes flitted to the roses strewn about the ground and he smiled a slow, feral grin.

_Oh yes, that will do nicely._

"Your daughter. You will give me your daughter." Sherlock watched as the man paled and went absolutely still. He was too distraught to even ask how Sherlock knew that he had one, which was disappointing to him, considering how long it had been since he'd impressed anyone with his superior intelligence.

"No, my Lord, no please. Do what you will with me but don't harm my child." He was pleading for his daughter, willing to give himself up to keep her safe. Oh this would be a fantastic punishment indeed.

"The loss of your beloved daughter would hurt you far more than any physical pain I could inflict upon you," Sherlock replied coolly, observing the man deflate and tears fill his eyes. The Beast felt a pang of remorse, but it was overshadowed by his anger at the disruption to his life.

"You will use my carriage to return to your home. The horses will know the way. Your daughter will return in the carriage no later than tomorrow evening or I will go to your home and murder you then take her anyway."

He wasn't sure what he would do with the young woman when he got her, but he knew that this punishment would break the man in front of him so he could ponder the conundrum later.

He knew exactly what would frighten the man even more.

Sherlock reached to the ground where the man's blade had fallen, and picked it up. His eyes flitted around the garden until they landed on the blood red roses. Smiling evilly, he sauntered over to the bushes and cut a dozen of the blossoms from them, and returned to the trembling man, handing the bouquet to him.

"A promise for your sweet daughter." He drawled the words, adding a hint of indecency to them. "Now go and do not disobey me."

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**As always, I love hearing what you think!**


	3. Devastated

Matthias wiped the tears from his eyes as the carriage pulled up to his small cottage. Before he even looked out of the door, he heard the patter of bare footsteps on the stone walkway leading from the road to his front door.

"Father!" Molly cried happily as he alighted from the posh carriage. She threw herself into his arms and they held each other tightly. She'd been so afraid for him, thinking him lost in the forest, or attacked by thieves. She checked him over, fingers probing his limbs for any injury, eyes flitting over his form both to assure herself of his wholeness and to comfort herself with his presence.

He stood motionless as she appraised him, not yet looking into his face, not yet seeing the pain and remorse there. How could he not blame himself for his folly? It was his curiosity that had led him astray, into the domain of the Beast, and it was his pride that had placed his daughter, his soul, into the arms of the nightmare.

Matthias was terrified for her. His beloved daughter who he'd been commanded to deliver to the great beast in the isolated castle with the probability that he'd never see her again. He sighed into her hair, committing the color and scent to memory. His beautiful daughter.

He hoped she would be safe. That the Beast had been merely attempting to frighten him when he gave him the roses and insinuated that they were a promise. He prayed it was only that.

He couldn't defy the monster, not even as much as he wished he could. He knew, in his soul, that the Beast would not take defiance lightly, and that when his retribution came, it would devastate the Hoopers even more so than his demand that Molly be sent to his castle. No, if there was any hope to be had, it was in the slight chance that the Beast would tire of Molly's constant dwelling in his domain, invading his much treasured privacy, and that he would send her away.

Matthias prayed that it would be so.

Ever the intuitive daughter, Molly pulled back from her joyful embrace and examined her father's visage closely.

"You've been crying, what's happened father? What's wrong?" Her large brown eyes darted back and forth across his face, worry creasing her features.

Matthias heaved a great sigh and glanced back at the carriage behind him then down to the bouquet of blood red flowers clutched tightly in his fist.

"Let's go inside, Molly. We have much to discuss."

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"I'm so sorry Molly, I'm so sorry, my love. Please, please forgive me."

Matthias repeated it over and over as his daughter, his patient, loving, quiet daughter raged through their cottage, sobbing and throwing anything she could get her hands on against the walls, taking out her grief and terror on their meager possessions.

The roses were the first to go, shredded and crushed under her tiny feet. Then the pots and pans, crashing against the walls with a metallic protest. After that, it was her clothes, ripped from her small wardrobe and tossed haphazardly across her tiny bedroom.

Matthias did not move. He listened to her sobs, her curses, her near screams of agony and betrayal, his own cheeks wet with emotion. His heart hurt for his only child, his pride and joy. It hurt for her future, for his own. It hurt for her loss of freedom, for his loss of his will to live. Most of all, it hurt for her beautiful mother, who'd trusted him to protect their child at all costs.

He was sure he'd failed.

Her books remained untouched in her fit, as did her mother's jewelry box, the last reminder Molly had of the woman who had died giving birth to her. In that, Matthias found some hope that his daughter had not yet given up her own. That it was still there and her agony would pass and give way to a determination to surmount this terrible obstacle in their lives.

Her tempest raged on for hours, late into the night with Matthias looking on, wide-eyed, at the daughter who had never before raised her voice in his presence. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the storm was over.

Molly stopped in mid throw, her arm going lax, as she crumpled to the floor, a hand held to her mouth to hold in the silent sobs. Her shoulders heaved with the effort of holding herself together, her slim frame looking as if it would burst apart with the force of her grief. Matthias rushed to her, hesitating just the slightest moment before gathering her into his arms, holding her as she cried herself out against his shoulder.

After a long while, she quieted and stood, pressing a kiss to her father's cheek first, then made her way to her room, shutting the door behind her with a quiet click. He continued to listen as she rummaged through her belongings, finding a well-worn carpetbag and folding her few items of clothing to prepare for her new life.

Neither member of the Hooper family slept that night.

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Another person was awake as well, far from the small cottage where two hearts were breaking. He stared out of the window, watching the moon tread its lonely path through the night sky, pondering the sounds of the night. Even silence was never soundless he mused, hearing the crickets chirp and a faraway pack of wolves howl at that same cold orb in the sky.

Cold and soulless, the moon's light is. Not warm and cheery like the sun's golden rays. The stark silvery light of the moon brought out the fears and secrets men sought to hide. It was fitting that he could only exist in its glow, forbidden to partake in the joy that the sun brought to the world.

He glanced down, studying the crystal of the intricately cut glass in his hand. The amber liquid sloshed gently as he brought it to his full lips again, savoring the burn as it slid down his throat.

He couldn't say why he was so like the moon. Only that he found a kindred spirit in her frigid gaze, night after night. The moon understood him like no other. Better than he understood himself.

Sighing, he drained the cup, studying it once more before opening his long, slim fingers and letting it drop to the floor, the shattering of the glass resonating on the cool night air.


	4. Power

**Thanks allthebellsinvenice for reading over it for me! Sorry this took so long guys! I hope you like it!**

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He watched in silence as the carriage turned a sharp bend, the horses slowing just enough to take the curve safely. From his vantage point, he could just hear the beat of their hooves echoing through the trees and up from the valley to the high ground where he stood. He turned and jogged through the forest, following paths only known to himself and the wild animals that roamed in the night.

Sherlock arrived at his home long before the carriage, which was hindered by the winding and long-disused road it traveled. Throwing open the doors, he called for his one companion, an elderly woman who'd known him since birth and refused to leave when all others did.

"Mrs. Hudson!" his rough voice echoed in the halls of the castle, going deep into the halls to die.

"Oh, Sherlock, I'm in the middle of a batch of biscuits, what on Earth is the matter?" she asked, drying her hands on her apron. Smells of baking clung to her and he took a deep sniff of the air in spite of himself.

"The girl I told you about is almost here…" His gaze shifted, as he didn't trust himself to maintain eye contact.

"Say no more, I'm as good as gone," she smiled, and he felt a tiny pang of guilt at the gesture. He hadn't been able to bring himself to tell her that he was forcing a father to give up his child, all to satisfy a whim. The little old housekeeper thought well of him, though only she knew why. Sherlock was not willing to throw that away just yet. It didn't matter, the girl would be too afraid to speak to Mrs. Hudson, he'd ensure that.

A frown crossed his face, wrinkling his features. He still had no idea how long he intended to keep this girl, how long he would torture the man whose only crime was to lose his way in the vast forest. At moments, Sherlock felt almost lenient, or at least bored with the idea, and resolved to let her go as soon as she arrived, and count it as a lesson in obedience for the man. In his black moods, Sherlock cursed the interruption of his solitary life and vowed to keep the girl locked away for an age, or at least until her father had succumbed to his broken heart and shuffled off this mortal coil.

He growled, his mind still unmade as the sound of hooves reached his ears. He took in the sight of the nearing carriage from his position, leaning against one of the huge oaken doors, which were still wide open. His body language telegraphed insolence, even if his beastly form could not convey the expression as well as the patrician features he possessed in the moonlight.

The horses clattered up through the massive wrought iron gates and up to the door, dust billowing behind them as the carriage rolled to a halt. There was no movement for a long moment and Sherlock growled angrily, thinking that either his horses had been fooled, an impossible feat to be sure, or that the silly girl had gone and fainted as they approached the castle. Either way, he'd have to move, and so lose his carefully constructed image.

Striding quickly to the door of the carriage, Sherlock looked inside and stopped abruptly, the growl dying as he beheld a beautiful young women seated primly inside, her hands clasped in her lap. He stood staring at her for an unmeasured time, until she cleared her throat and thrust her nose into the air.

"It is proper for a man to open the door for the lady to exit," she said haughtily and Sherlock's brow furrowed. She hadn't yet looked at him, and was attempting to order him about? A smile stole across his face, perhaps this experiment would not be as boring as he'd predicted. He found himself looking down at the door he'd unconsciously opened, perplexed, as she climbed out, her small bag in tow.

She stood silently, seeming to have run out of ideas and he bit back a laugh. She was a fighter.

Perfect.

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Molly stood rather awkwardly next to the carriage. Her show of defiance was just that, a show, and inside, she was quaking with fear. She didn't dare look fully at the beast so close to her, but stole glances out of the corner of her eye.

He was, smaller, than she'd expected. Her father had hesitated to describe him to her, and when he did, his description was hazy at best. Shadows and fear were what her father painted for her.

All Molly saw was an abnormality.

She supposed when he was trying to, he could indeed terrify, but having caught him off-guard with her act in the carriage, he looked more like a lost puppy, a faraway look in his eyes.

Those eyes soon sharpened and turned to her though. Molly stiffened as he began to circle her, examining her from head to toe. He uttered a command, in a language that Molly didn't understand, though she had a pretty good idea which language it was from her few encounters with foreigners in the village public house. The carriage moved away with his harsh words, the horses following his command. Molly had wondered at their unfaltering knowledge of the way to and from her home, and again now.

She hid her thoughts carefully as he scrutinized her, his eyes bright with a fierce intelligence. Molly fought the urge to quail under his gaze. Not because of her fear of him, though she still had a healthy dose of that, but from force of habit. Molly Hooper lived her daily life hoping that no one would notice her.

Well now, it appeared that option had been taken from her.

The beast stopped directly in front of her and smirked at her.

"And how do you intend to continue that small show of defiance, pray tell?"

Goose bumps crept up Molly's spine at the deep raspy quality of his tones. It wasn't human, no, but it wasn't quite animal either. Its low register was far deeper than any human voice could manage, and the sibilants were drawn out, as if he was having difficulty forming them. She shivered and bit back a small yelp, though she couldn't be sure it was born entirely of fear. Her arms circled her delicate frame, an unconscious gesture of self-preservation that was made difficult by the bag she still clutched in one sweaty hand.

He laughed, a deep throaty chuckle, and smiled at her, a grimace really, his lips pulled back to bare his teeth, fangs gleaming in the sun.

"I suspected as much. You should have the foresight to plan ahead, girl."

She dropped her eyes to the ground and her head tilted slightly forward, through no conscious effort of her own. A deep part of her acknowledged his power here, his authority over her. Though her rational thought rebelled against the idea of giving up without a fight, Molly wasn't stupid. She knew her defiance would have to be measured, that she would need to choose her battles carefully.

This fight was not worth the effort.

"You sent for me and I am here. What will you do with your toy now that it is within your reach?" she mused, out loud, but only partly directing her speech to him. She was mildly surprised to see him stiffen in her peripheral vision and realized that she'd inadvertently touched on a point he himself was unsure of. Molly wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad one.

A low growl emanated from him and her head sank further still, as he spoke again, the faint lisp in his speech still audible. She briefly wondered how often he spoke aloud, as he seemed out of practice.

"Shall we play a game?" He began circling her again, every inch the predator to her prey as he straightened, drawing power to himself with just the alteration of his posture.

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Sherlock mind raced, possibilities and phrases tossed to and fro as he devised his plan to instill terror in the heart of the young woman who stood before him. He wouldn't, couldn't, abide her rebellion; Sherlock would break her, tear her apart with fear and doubt until there was nothing left but her submission to him. He would make her wholly dependent on his whims, living to please him, and when he had wrung every last drop of defiance from her, making her his willing slave, he'd abandon her. Cast her out, back into the world she came from and watch from afar as she fell apart without his guidance and direction.

He smiled as he circled around behind her. What a fun game to play.

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**Let me know what you think! Pretty please?**


	5. Welcome

**Sorry it's been so long since I updated! I've had a million things going on and frankly I'm rather afraid of this fic because it's uncharted territory for me. Thank God for allthebellsinvenice, who probably hates me by now because she's had to hold my hand through this and put up with all my whining and poor grammar lol Seriously, I can't thank her enough.**

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Sherlock smirked, a plan to put this girl, who had unwittingly disturbed his normally unflappable calm, in her place once and for all.

He stopped in front of her, looking up and down her body boldly, and hid his triumphant grin at her shiver. He knew well how to evoke the reaction he was looking for, and congratulated himself on not losing his edge in the long years of near solitude.

"Come with me, girl," he commanded, turning on his heel to head for the door. He paused when there was no movement from her, turning slowly to face her again.

"I said, come with me," Sherlock growled, not at all pleased with her resistance.

She raised her chin hesitantly but with an air of defiance, brown eyes glittering in the afternoon sun.

"My name is Molly," she replied, her voice quiet, but strong.

Sherlock's brow furrowed. All right, so maybe he had congratulated himself too quickly. He turned, the heavy oaken door solid against his back as he lounged against it, affecting a bored air as he studied her. In truth, Sherlock was anything but bored with her. This girl was the most interesting thing to come along in an eternity. And Sherlock was going to make the most of the delightful distraction.

His lip curled, making his expression somewhat of a snarl, which he realized was not what he was attempting to do. He dropped the look immediately, disconcerted that in his human form, it would have been an arrogant face, one that he'd used many times with devastating effect. He shook himself slightly, returning his focus to the girl who still stood in the same place, and smirked cruelly.

"I don't care what your name is. You are in my home and I shall call you what I please. Now come, girl!" He raised his voice at the end and watched as she jumped slightly at his tone.

Without waiting for her, her turned and entered his home, pleased to hear her shuffling footsteps behind him and her quiet gasp of awe as she passed through the door and took in the rich furnishings and grandeur of the castle. Judging from her general appearance and meager bag of belongings, his home was far above anything she had ever even seen, much less had at her disposal.

* * *

Molly had to remind herself how to breathe when she entered into the great foyer of the castle. It was far larger than she'd realized standing outside, and lavishly decorated, the smell of oiled wood and leather making her take in a deep breath of appreciation. It smelled like the library she'd visited, on her one trip into the city, and Molly instantly loved it. The floors were a rich dark wood, with plush rugs dotting the area; one in front of each of the twin doors on opposite sides of the far end of the room, another in front of the massive staircase directly before her and one under her feet, beside the great entry doors.

The ceilings above her were high, vaulted due to the lack of a second floor in the foyer. The staircase led up to the landing of the second floor, with what appeared to be halls off to the left and right. A luxurious looking carpet began at the bottom of the stairs and continued up, its color similar to a dark red wine. She wondered if it would feel soft to the touch, for it certainly looked like it was.

Her eyes darted about, adjusting to the dimness of the space, and she noted two enormous pieces of art on the walls, directly facing each other. One was a brightly colored painting in a gilded frame, and Molly estimated that it was at least her height, maybe larger. On it there were figures, horses and men, clashing in a great battle of some sort. Molly was fascinated, but tore her eyes away, hoping to examine it in more detail at another time. The other work of art was in the form of a tapestry, hung on the opposite wall, not quite as large as the painting, but still imposing. On it, there was a family; father, mother, and what appeared to be half of one son. Molly's brow furrowed, as she examined it more closely. The entire lower right corner was frayed and singed, and a large piece had been burn off, the stone wall behind blackened. Her interest piqued, she leaned towards it, her feet pulling her closer.

* * *

Sherlock turned to look at the girl, only to find her enthralled by the ruined tapestry on the wall. He'd honestly forgotten it was there, and was not thrilled to be reminded of its silent presence in his home. He watched as her eyes flitted over it, her small face raised to look above her. Frowning, he slammed his large paw-like hand down onto the bannister of the oversized staircase, the sharp sound ringing out through the foyer, and making her jump and glance wildly around.

"Now that I have your attention," Sherlock said coldly, glaring at her angrily. She was trying his patience, what little he had to begin with.

He turned and headed up the staircase, smiling to himself as he heard her nearly silent steps meekly following behind. Her light footfalls reminded him that he needed to curb her curiosity immediately and he stopped abruptly at the top of the stairs. He motioned to his left, where a long hall was interspersed with doors and large windows, shrouded with thick, velvety drapes.

"This will be your wing of the castle. You may roam it as you please during the day, when I do not have use for you or have grown annoyed with your stupidity." He was fairly certain she snorted lightly at that but couldn't be positive so he ignored it and continued.

"At night, you will be confined to your room. To insure that you do not leave it, I will fit the outside with a lock." He smirked at her look of dismay.

"No temptation." He almost laughed at her pout, which she tried in vain to hide from him.

Pointing to his right, at the large wooden door next to the top of the stairs, he turned to look fully at her.

"Under no circumstances will you ever enter this wing of the castle. Never."

Her eyes were on the door and he reached out, touching her for the first time, lightly and carefully catching hold of her chin and tilting her head towards him, suppressing the shiver that ran through him at the surprised gasp that escaped her.

"Do you understand me?" He demanded, holding her gaze until her head dropped, her eyes on the floor as she nodded silently, which wasn't good enough for Sherlock.

"I said, Do. You. Understand. Me?" he roared, the volume of his shout making her take a frightened step back. Good, she should fear him.

"Yes," she stuttered, and his brow furrowed. No, she needed something to call him. Not his name, no, it was too precious to him, too fragile for the form he held in the sunlight.

"You will address me as 'Sir' at all times," he commanded sternly, and she nodded again. At his growl, she hastened to say the requisite "yes sir," albeit, rather grudgingly.

He nodded; that would do for now.

Sherlock set off down the hall to the left, dragging her by the arm. He was suddenly angry, and impatient to be rid of her for the night so that he could think in peace. The sun was setting as well and he needed to be ensconced in his wing of the castle before that occurred.

He all but threw her into the last door on the right, a spacious room that he'd had Mrs. Hudson prepare the previous evening. She'd brought up a tray as well, before they'd entered the house so there was a sizeable meal waiting for the girl, with cold meats, breads and cheeses, along with fruit and red wine. She wouldn't want for the night.

She stumbled into the room, and he stared at her coldly as she collected herself, turning to face him.

"The door will be unlocked when you wake. Sleep well, little one."

With those words, Sherlock slammed and locked the door, steeling himself against the heart wrenching cry of despair from the girl inside.


	6. Light

**Thank you so much to everyone who has followed/favorited/and especially reviewed this fic so far! I want to hug you all!**

**And a HUGE thanks to allthebellsinvenice for chopping this one down to size and telling me which of my ideas worked and which were absolutely bonkers and pulling me back on course when I'm so factually inaccurate that it's painful. Really though, she's an angel in beta form and you should all go read her fics on AO3 because HOT DAMN. Anyway, on with the story!**

* * *

She knew that it was futile, beating her small fists against the smooth, unyielding wood of the locked door. Molly did it anyway. It helped, taking out her frustrations in such a tangible way. She didn't dare break anything in the room, afraid of punishment from her captor.

She finally gave up, turning to sink slowly down to the floor, her back braced against the cool wood. She looked around, taking stock of the room that would be her own for the foreseeable future.

The last rays of sun were streaming the through the grand window, slowly receding from the room as the sun set. The heavy drapes were pulled back, revealing a gossamer layer which fell delicately across the glass. It was the only window in the house she'd seen open thus far.

A large four-poster bed, made of intricately carved dark wood, stood opposite the window, piled high with blankets and plush pillows. A sheepskin was draped over the floor on the side of the bed closer to the door, and Molly had a sudden urge to sink her toes into its softness.

In front of the window stood a wooden table with a silver tray, piled high with food, much more than Molly could eat alone. The smell of cold chicken, cheese and bread was welcome, though, and her stomach growled appreciatively. She turned away, eyes flitting over the rest of the room.

Against the far wall stood an enormous wardrobe which Molly was sure would have held the entire contents of her room back in her father's home. Beside it leaned a long mirror with a gilded frame. All the furniture was fashioned of the same dark wood with intricate carvings of vines and flowers.

The wall behind the bed was different from the others, paneled in a lighter wood than the furniture. She supposed that if she rapped on the wall it would sound hollow, likely housing a servant's passage. The only large estate she'd been inside had them, but they only opened from the inside. She was certain that was the case here; the Beast would not overlook such an important detail.

She pushed off the door and stood slowly, deciding that it would be better to eat and keep up her strength than to wallow in misery. The light was quickly fading, and she needed to wash up and eat her fill before she lost all ability to see her way.

Molly picked up her bag and walked across the room after toeing off her shoes by the door. Her legs were bare, as she detested the texture of the inexpensive stockings available to commoners, and her dress fell to mid-calf. Most of her simple clothing followed that pattern; Molly knew that it wasn't entirely proper to show as much leg as she did, but having her ankles free of her skirt let her move faster and do her chores with more ease. And if it made it easier to slip off her shoes and splash in the stream when she went berry-picking, well, that was her secret.

She opened the wardrobe and put her clothes away, a chore which took little time. She moved to the vanity and examined herself for a long moment in the mirror that sat there.

"Well, Molly Hooper? What now?" she asked herself, and sighed when no answer came to mind.

Picking up a cloth, she washed her face thoroughly in the silver basin, scrubbing until her skin was pink and she was sure that the freckles that dotted her nose were lighter than before. Then she washed her hands as well as she could, as she had no desire for her food to taste like the road.

Molly moved to sit at the table, facing the window. It was nearly fully dark now, and she had to lean over to see what she was picking up.

"I wish I had some light," she muttered, annoyed, just as she usually was, by the untimely setting of the sun.

Just as her fingers closed on a piece of cheese, a sudden light filled the room. Molly froze and looked up to the source of the glow.

Above her, she saw a curious device that had at first escaped her notice. What appeared to be a clear glass basin was attached to the ceiling, and it was emitting a soft glow, illuminating the room clearly. Molly examined it curiously, watching as the light within seemed to dance and move of its own accord, as if thousands of tiny firebugs were trapped in a jar.

It could only be magic.

She pursed her lips, staring up at the light, deep in thought. Only the faeries had magic anymore, and there were few of them left. Mostly spoken of in hushed whispers around the fire, late at night. The war had all but destroyed their ranks, and not a few had turned from the light and made their way in the darkness. She fought back a shudder.

But he could not be a faerie. For while she'd heard tales of their powers, including those of shifting their forms; Molly saw him. Saw the realness of him.

He was no magical being.

And yet, he used magic. Curious.

Molly turned back to her food and ate her fill, eyes wandering every short while back up to the light as she pondered her mysterious, cruel captor, and wondered what lay in store for her on the morrow. When she finished, she washed her hands again and changed into her simple nightdress, leaving the ties at the neck and sleeves loose, as was her custom.

Molly stood examining the bed for a long moment before she tossed most of the pillows onto the floor, leaving only two. She walked around the bed and gathered up the sheepskin, dragging it around to the side closer to the wardrobe and rearranging it there. Finally, she pulled the thick covers back and climbed in, snuggling down into the surprisingly sweet-smelling blankets and closing her eyes.

After a moment, she huffed and sat up, glaring at the dancing glow above her.

"I wish to sleep now," she called out, only half expecting the light to heed her words. When there was no change, she sighed and rolled over, throwing the blankets over her head. It was too heavy though, to continue that way, and Molly had never been able to stand anything over her head or around her neck, so she threw them off again. As soon as her head was freed from the covers, she realized that the light had completely gone out, leaving her alone in the near pitch-darkness of the room.

"Thank you," she called out, sparing a thought for how absurd she must sound, speaking to a light.

Molly gathered her pillow to her and closed her eyes, soon falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.

* * *

Sherlock smothered a chuckle at the confusion and sleepiness in the girl's voice as she thanked the light for going out. He slid along the corridor that was once a servant's passage, making a mental note to look through his books for a way to configure the light to her presence, instead of his spoken word. He didn't want to have to sit outside her room each night to insure that the light worked when she needed it.

As he made his way soundlessly out of the passage and down the hall to his own wing, he whispered commands aloud, making the drapes of each window he passed open, letting in the night. There was no light from the moon, indeed it would not even be visible until just before dawn now that it was waning to the new moon, and his pale form was barely visible passing through the halls. Sherlock arrived back in his own quarters, breathing a sigh of relief even though he knew it was impossible for the girl to escape her room and somehow catch a glimpse of his nighttime form.

Even his faithful companion Mrs. Hudson, who was half faerie herself, could not look upon him in his natural state, lest the owner of the curse take notice.

His mood soured by the reminder, Sherlock stalked through his spacious wing of the castle, finally stopping to pick up a crystal glass and fill it with amber liquid. He took it to one of three massive floor to ceiling glass doors that led out onto a small balcony overlooking the back of the castle and pulled the doors open, breathing deeply of the cool night air. Leaning casually against the doorframe, he gazed out at the gardens that Mrs. Hudson kept beautiful. All types of flowers grew there, tended with her minor magical capabilities. The only area she didn't care for was the rose garden, which was Sherlock's domain.

Shaking his head to rid himself of troublesome thoughts, Sherlock took a sip of his drink, relishing the burn in the back of his throat. His wandering mind led him back to the room across the castle, where his captive lay sleeping. Sherlock sipped his drink as he pondered the girl.

Molly. Her name echoed in his mind, giving her a form, a place in his well-ordered musings.

She was pretty; Sherlock had been taken aback at first by her beauty. Perhaps not in the classical sense, but her features were dainty, like the rest of her, and the stubborn set of her jaw went well with the upturned nose and smattering of light freckles. And her eyes; he could've lost himself within them, and almost did before remembering that he was supposed to be the one with the power in their relationship. He was her captor and she would bend to his will, or regret it.

Frankly, he was excited by the prospect of a fight, happy that she wasn't the meek, timid young woman he'd supposed she would be. Her spirit was strong, and her temper fiery, and Sherlock smiled as he thought of the battle for her submission.

An image flashed in his mind of another kind of submission, not only of will, but of body as well. Her hands tied, eyes covered, body bare for him to explore and use for his pleasure. He would call her his beauty, his little one, and she would moan incoherent praises as he worshiped her body. Little one, it suited her perfectly. She was so tiny. She would fit perfectly under his body, arching into him, writhing in ecstasy.

He shifted uncomfortably. No, NO! He would not visit her in the middle of the night like some beggar. He wouldn't.

But the thought was now firmly planted in his mind, Sherlock found that he couldn't shake it. Visions of her serving him, kneeling at his feet with her wrists and ankles bound; a silken band across her eyes the only material on her small frame. She'd be so beautiful with her hair piled high on her head in the fashion of the nobility, with a circlet woven through the long, cinnamon colored locks, diamonds glinting in the cold light of the moon.

Sherlock shook himself, forcing his thoughts out of that vein, and tilted back the glass, downing the rest of the liquid before slipping into his own bed, which suddenly seemed far too large and cold for his liking.


	7. Blossoming

**Here you go lovelies, a super long chapter to make up for my not updating for a while! Hope you like it.**

**A mega huge thanks to allthebellsinvenice for all the notes and especially for taking that horrendous fail of a poem and turning it into something magnificent. Seriously, that one was all her guys.**

**A big thank you to mizjoely as well for the final pass through and edits!**

* * *

Molly groaned and rolled over, hiding her eyes under her arm. The sun was streaming in through the window opposite her bed, bathing the room in a golden light. She sat up, blinking owlishly, and looked around as it slowly dawned on her that she was not in her familiar room in her father's quaint but cozy home. Molly groaned and stretched, mentally steeling herself to get out of bed and face whatever the day held for her.

As soon as she put her feet on the ground, she knew someone had been in her room. Her bare feet hit the cold stone floor where she'd dragged the sheepskin to the night before. She peered down and it was nowhere to been seen, so she clambered back across the pile of blankets and looked down on the other side, finding it exactly where it had been the previous night before she'd moved it.

Molly's brow furrowed and she looked around, noticing other minor changes in her quarters. The pillows she'd tossed to the floor were neatly stacked against the wall by her wardrobe. A clean, dry cloth sat next to the basin of water. She glanced over to the small table. The food from the night before had been removed at some point, and replaced with a plate of fruit and a glass pitcher of what appeared to be juice.

Her eyes flitted to the door, thinking of the Beast's promise that it would be unlocked when she awoke. She desperately wanted to run over and throw it open, sprint down the stairs and out of the castle, straight back to her father and former life, but she knew that was not an option. The Beast would never allow it. No, she was here for as long as he desired her company, and there was nothing she could do about it, short of ending him. And that wasn't really an option, not for Molly. Not because she was afraid of death, not at all, only she couldn't imagine herself being the one to cause it. Not even to someone such as her captor.

Molly stood and went about her morning routine, desperately hoping she would be allowed to wash at some point. She did her best with the basin and cloth, then dressed in a simple outfit, choosing to leave her feet bare, as she did often at her home. She breakfasted, trying several fruits she'd never seen before. They were all delicious and cool, the juice bursting in Molly's mouth, causing her to moan with delight several times.

* * *

Sherlock paused outside her door, hearing a distinct feminine moan from within. He stared at the door, puzzled. Was she pleasuring herself? At this time of day? He pulled his cloak around him clumsily attempting to hide the front of his body, just in case, and cursed his clawed paw when it caught on the seam and ripped a small hole that Mrs. Hudson would no doubt have to fix later.

Sherlock threw open the door, to find the girl seated at the table in the midst of devouring a large strawberry. She stopped mid-bite and gulped, her hand slowly drifting back to the table to place the half-eaten berry back in the bowl that Mrs. Hudson had dropped off when she'd tidied the room just before dawn.

He cleared his throat, wincing internally when it sounded more like a growl and he saw her eyes widen infinitesimally, though she was obviously trying to hide it. She stood quietly, and clasped her hands behind her, unconsciously assuming a submissive stance with her head slightly bowed as if awaiting punishment. He sucked in a breath, banishing naughty images from his mind brought forward by her posture.

"You will accompany me today," he said, extending his arm to her. She hesitated before stepping forward and gingerly placed her small hand over his paw, her touch feather light. Sherlock turned and exited first, turning so as not to lose the physical contact.

"You may help me with my tasks," he continued conversationally, as he led her down the hall, which was bright with sunlight. He took her downstairs and into the lower east wing of the castle, directly under her rooms. At the end of the hall, which was darker than upstairs due to the closed drapes, was a large set of double doors which Sherlock opened, letting go of Molly's hand in the process. He smirked at the gasp behind him as the room came into the girl's field of vision.

It was a large atrium, filled with light from the morning sun. Inside, all manner of plants grew, many climbing and winding up the sides of the room, clinging to the metal support structure. Sherlock entered, making his way around a line of plants to a large wrought iron table with a glass top in the center of the large area. He looked over his shoulder to see the girl still standing in the doorway, transfixed by the beauty of the room. He looked up, realizing that it had long ago ceased to affect him then back at her, appreciating the look of pure awe on her face. Sherlock decided that he liked that look there, and would take every opportunity to impress her in the future.

"Here," he snarled at her, enjoying the way she snapped instantly to attention, focused solely on him. She meekly followed his path round to the table and stood before him, her eyes sliding to the table where his favorite possession sat in its usual place.

"That is a microscope," he said condescendingly. He smirked as her eyes widened again and noted that she looked almost eager. "It's a device that-"

"You can use it to see things that are too small normally!" she interrupted, clapping her hands together in excitement.

Sherlock stared at her, momentarily stunned by her knowledge of and ecstatic reaction to his prized belonging. After all, there were not many in the world, and few knew of the revolutionary way it was changing long held beliefs on basically everything from medicine to how the reproductive structure of plants functioned, which was precisely what Sherlock planned to study now.

"Yes," he answered finally, unable to come up with a cutting response, especially when her expression remained so elated as she examined the object from afar.

_Perhaps,_ he thought with a wicked grin, _if you are very good, I'll teach you how to use it one day._

Sherlock turned and picked up a small basket with some difficulty, his paw being larger and more cumbersome than his human hands. Normally, he would do his experiments at night, when he could muster the finesse required for his more delicate tasks. He did not particularly want to think about why he was clearing his schedule, so to speak, instead claiming in his own mind that he was merely using the tedious tasks as a way of assessing his captive's temperament and willingness to obey his whims, no matter how wearisome they might be.

He beckoned her to him, pleased to see her readily follow his unspoken instruction, and he shoved the basket into her hands. He picked up a small knife from the table, and handed it to her as well.

"Go and cut some flowers," he ordered, disguising the command in the tone of a suggestion, smiling to himself when she paid no heed to the command, instead automatically looking around at all the blossoms.

"Which?" she asked, returning her gaze to him.

"It doesn't matter," he replied, "just bring several of each type that you chose, and don't bring more than a few different ones."

He turned away then, affecting an indifferent air as she sauntered away, but watching out of the corner of his eye as she leaned over to inhale deeply of a fragrant white jasmine. She smiled to herself and moved on, cutting several blue irises, one of which she examined curiously. It was not a native plant, so she could not have seen one before. Sherlock watched, rapt, as she looked it over, smelling it, feeling the texture of the petals and twirling it between her fingers.

She moved on and looked up in surprise when the temperature cooled. She took two steps back, obviously feeling the difference in the two areas and looked over to him. Sherlock pretended to be busy, not wanting to be caught watching her like a love-addled teen. Why his mind chose that particular analogy, he wasn't sure.

She walked on, and he grew impatient, even though he very much enjoyed the expressions that flitted across her delicate features. He would much rather that the look of awe and joy that crossed her face be caused by something he did, rather than their surroundings.

"You are trying my patience girl," he growled, calling to her across the room. "Bring them here," he said, watching her calmly as she scampered back to him, holding the basket in front of her like a peace offering. He took it, setting it on the table with a loud thump, which made her jump slightly.

"Pull them out. Arrange them in lines, each type in a different one." She silently did as he said, though he was sure that her curiosity was urging her cooperation, rather than any real desire to serve him. Not that it wasn't there, she just wasn't actively thinking along those lines, it was more a subconscious obedience.

Sherlock smirked. He had a good idea how to turn her into an active, willing servant, but it would require a little more finesse than he possessed at the moment.

Clamping down once again on his wandering thoughts, Sherlock glanced down at the table to see that she had done as he required. He gave her strict instructions on how to dissect them, a task too delicate for his large and heavy paws, and was gratified to see her follow his orders implicitly. Not once did he have to correct her method, and Sherlock's mind rambled again, thinking of all the other ways her obedience could serve him.

When she'd finished her task, she set the blade down onto the glass surface of the table, the clink of it hitting, drawing him from his reverie.

"Good," he commended her, congratulating himself inwardly as she glowed under his praise.

They took a break at midday to eat a light luncheon; Sherlock went to the kitchen himself to collect the tray and pitcher of water from Mrs. Hudson, who he was still wary of introducing to his guest. After they finished and washed up, they prepared to resume their labors.

He then gave her several small paintbrushes and taught her how to dust pollen onto thin pieces of glass for him to inspect under the microscope. She did her task dutifully and they lapsed into an easy silence, except for when he needed her to do something. She didn't speak, but the glances that Sherlock stole showed her brows furrowed in thought as she chewed her lower lip, which he found rather distracting.

He praised her once again when she had completed her work. His smile turned to a glower, however, when she crossed her arms.

"I am more skilled than you think I am, if you feel the need to praise me for such an easy task," she said, her voice an even tone, as she subtly pushed back against his commanding approach.

Oh no, Sherlock could not allow defiance.

* * *

"You know," the Beast said, glancing over at Molly, who had looked at him when he spoke. "Flowers are the childbearing part of the plant."

She stiffened and he smiled. She didn't know what to make of that statement. While it could be simply an observation, it could also be a loaded sentence, a subtle threat. Her breath quickened and to her dismay, it wasn't only caused by fear.

"Each flower has a male and a female portion as well," he continued, looking through his microscope. After a moment he reached out blindly, grabbing Molly by the elbow. She yelped at his touch, both surprised and fearful as he dragged her closer to himself.

"Look," he said, motioning to the device as he stepped back. Molly bit her lip, her eyes flitting from the Beast to the microscope. She desperately wanted to peer through the lens but doing so would place her directly in front of him, and she would have to bend forward, pushing her bum out towards him.

Her curiosity won out and she stepped forward, trying to bend as little as possible, a difficult feat.

"The Greek call the two parts the Androecium and the Gynoecium, man and woman's house respectively," his deep voice rumbled behind her as he expounded on his previous statement. "Though, I do not think that the plant can bear children on its own. Like humans," he paused, "they need a lover."

Molly went absolutely rigid then, and was highly aware of the creature behind her. He was close, but not overly so, and Molly knew he could see her shiver and hear her quick, shallow breaths. She straightened up quickly and returned to her side of the table, resuming her task of dissecting the blossoms for his study without a word. He moved back to his studies and they worked together in silence for a while, the tension from both sides palpable. He glanced over every few moments, watching her as she worked, and Molly tried unsuccessfully to hide the flush of her cheeks and slight shake in her hands.

She bit her lip, warring with herself over something. Finally, she gave a tiny nod and glanced over to him, while continuing to work.

"Why would you want to cut the live ones and not just experiment on the ones that have fallen? You're killing them just to satisfy your curiosity," she asked, both genuinely wanting to know, and attempting to needle him subtly.

He stopped his work at the other end of the table and turned to face her, replying coolly, "Everything passes eventually girl, what does it matter if I hurry the process?"

"Aren't they more beautiful whole and well?" Molly retorted, somewhat angrily.

"Some would argue there is more beauty in the broken," the Beast smirked.

"And are you of that opinion sir?" she spat out, now both furious and afraid. He could break her so easily and she was beginning to fear that he intended to.

He hesitated. "Perhaps not broken, no."

* * *

Sherlock looked back down at his work, an old poem coming to mind. He began to recite it, studying her out of the corner of his eye.

"The bee so bold bows down before

The beautiful, blushing flower

Tell me my dear, the bee did say,

Might a suitor steal an hour?"

He watched her carefully out of the corner of his eye as she stiffened, her skin prickling visibly. She shifted, and he moved a bit closer, reciting the lines easily, taking care to enunciate every word correctly through the impediment of his fangs.

"Sir, laughed the flower, her face alight,

Your words do trouble me so

For I know not if what you say is right

Or if I am not to know

Fair maid, said the bee, his heart astir,

You have but to say the word

For no new flowers may sprout from seed

If the bee may not be heard

The word I do give, cried the flower, oh yes,

The garden shall bloom in the sun

My suitor brings pollen to please me

And the two shall be as one

And so the year turns round again

And the moon ne'er bloomed so bright

Upon the dance of truest love

As the flower's blush that night"

* * *

His voice was so rich and deep, far too deep for a human, and his tones danced over the words of the suggestive poem. Molly vaguely thought that she might be losing her mind, but she couldn't deny that she was aroused by the words and his delivery of them.

He WAS attractive, though not in a physical sense. The Beast was power, and power is an aphrodisiac, heating the blood of even the most discerning woman. She tried to fight the shiver that ran up her spine, but couldn't keep it from creeping its way up her back slowly.

As he recited, he'd advanced on her slowly, and was now quite close to her. Molly tried not to flinch as he brushed against her arm as she busied herself at the table with him at her side, looking down at her. He smelled heavenly, a mixture of pollen which was stuck to the finer hairs on his paws and arms, and a heady, masculine scent, potent and musky, which threatened to make Molly lightheaded. If she closed her eyes just so, (she let them drift shut for a mere second,) she could almost imagine a man instead of the Beast before her.

His low growl brought her back to reality and Molly turned to face him, attempting to seem more confident than she felt.

"I'm finished. You will clean up." He no longer bothered to hide his commands behind a questioning tone and she realized that he'd been ordering her about since the morning. "Dispose of the samples and return the room to the way it was when we entered. Then you may wash and join me for dinner," he ordered, already striding towards the doors.

"I will clean up?" she echoed incredulously, looking at the mess around her. "Excuse me? I won't take orders from you. If you want this place clean you may do it yourself," she said, then quailed as he turned his piercing amber gaze on her. "Or at least help me," she finished lamely.

She stiffened when he laughed, a gurgling growl of a sound, and glared at him across the room.

"Help you? I thought you would be capable of such a simple task," he mocked, throwing her words from before back in her face. "Obviously, I was wrong. I shouldn't have expected you to be proficient in anything such as this. I suppose I will have to help you," he said, the final two words coming out in a sneer.

He turned slightly, as if preparing to reenter the room, and Molly clenched her fists in fury.

_Capable indeed, I will show him._

"No need," Molly bit back, her words cutting the air with their sharpness. "I am more than capable of performing this light task," she boasted, diminishing the enormity of the job for the sake of her gloat.

"Good, be quick," he smiled, and promptly strode out of the room, letting the doors bang closed behind him, and leaving Molly to curse how she'd just been outwitted so skillfully, ponder his behavior, and examine her own reactions to it.

* * *

**As always, I love reading your reviews!**


	8. Decay

**allthebellsinvenice and mizjoely are angels sent from heaven to keep this story from turning into a terrible train wreck. I love them both to death!**

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Her bare feet made little sound as she padded through the halls of the castle. It was the first time she'd been allowed to walk through it alone and she would have loved to explore each of the closed rooms along the corridors, but she had already taken too long.

After the Beast departed, Molly had tidied up the area where they had worked throughout the day. It was no small task, taking far longer than she had anticipated. When she'd exited the room, a note fluttered to the floor. She peered at it curiously. The handwriting was loopy and large, and there were several smears across the thick page.

**Go to your wing and enter the room just across from your chambers. You may wash before dining with me. Do not keep me waiting long.**

She glanced over it again, and took off down the hall, heading to the room she'd been directed to. She reached it, having seen no sign of her captor. The door to the room was identical to the others in the hall, and firmly closed. She opened it slowly, not knowing what to expect.

The room was brightly lit, the ceiling having several window-like panels of glass placed into it, allowing the sun to shine into the room. Molly gasped as she looked around her. The floors and walls glittered with thick, blue-tinted smooth pieces of glass, and towards the far wall, a river of water ran down the glass, pooling in a lowered portion of the room. Molly had never seen anything like it, and she doubted such a thing existed anywhere else. It was a marvel.

Glancing to her right, she noticed a vanity, not unlike the one in her room, complete with a plush bench and mirror. Across the bench lay one of her dresses, her nicest one, and fresh undergarments. She blushed to think that the Beast had gone through her belongings and had handled her underclothes. There were no shoes, for which she was grateful.

She hurriedly stripped off her clothes and stepped down the stairs into the pool of water. It was cool and refreshing, so much better than washing in the river or sponging off with water from the well back home. Molly felt as if she could spend hours lounging in the water, but she was mindful of the warning the Beast had given her about not making him wait for her.

She splashed a bit and accidentally knocked over a set of small bottles perched next to the pool. Curious, she uncorked one to see the contents. She sniffed it cautiously, and sighed with pleasure as the smell of flowers and vanilla met her nose. She poured a little of the liquid into her hands and was surprised to see it lather like soap.

"How odd," she muttered to herself as she poured some more of the liquid into her hands and washed her skin and hair with it, dipping below the water to rinse. She looked at the other two bottles, one of which held oils to make her skin softer, and the other which held a sweet smelling liquid that she didn't know the use for. She climbed out of the water and dried herself vigorously with a large cloth. Molly used the oil sparingly on her skin and dressed quickly, loath to leave the peaceful room but worried that she would upset her captor.

Shadows had begun to creep across the room, though it would be some time before the sun actually set. An impatient growl sounded through the halls and sent Molly scurrying the last few steps to the dining room, which she identified easily considering that it was the only room in the castle that was lit. Pausing at the door, she peered into the dim room.

Her host was seated at the end of the table nearest to her, all but invisible in the high-backed armchair he occupied.

"Come in, girl," he rumbled, the impatient note still easily heard in his tone.

"I told you, my name is Molly," she muttered under her breath before making her way around the long table, hoping to sit at the other end. To her dismay, the only place set besides the Beast's own was at his right hand. She slipped into her chair, keeping her eyes downcast.

The fireplace was lit behind her, for though the afternoons were warm, the evenings still held the chill of winter. Molly looked at the table, her mouth watering at the plethora of delicious-smelling platters of food. There was roasted chicken and freshly baked bread, several types of fruit, a creamy soup that smelled of cheese, and several other dishes that were covered. Her eyes flitted from the food to her host, who was watching her intently, his lips curled up in what should have been a smirk.

After spending the day with him, Molly was no longer frightened by the grotesque parodies of normal human expressions that flitted across the Beast's face. She was still very much wary of him and what he could do to her though, so she focused on reading his minute changes in countenance, hoping to get a glimpse of what thoughts were passing through his mind. Now, as he regarded her silently, she dropped her eyes back to the empty silver plate in front of her, electing to let him make the first move.

She didn't have to wait for long, as a sudden movement startled her. The Beast stood, with a grace that was unnatural for someone his size, and snatched up her plate, holding it delicately between two huge fingers. She followed the movements of his hand, noting that he seemed to perform the actions with ease, making her believe that he'd had quite a bit of practice in the ritual. He began to silently pile food on her plate, not stopping until it was overflowing with a bit of each dish. He scooped up a bowl, ladled soup into it and placed it next to the plate on her right. He repeated the actions with his own plate, foregoing the soup, then poured them both a glass of wine, setting hers next to Molly's already full glass of water. Throughout this, neither said a word.

Finally, he finished and seated himself again, and began to eat. Molly watched him out of the corner of her eye for a moment before tucking into her own food, caught by surprise at the hunger pangs in her gut. She was no stranger to hard work, but she was a healthy girl, with a soft belly and full thighs, and was unused to eating so little during the day. She scarfed down the food, tipping up her bowl of soup to drink from it. She glanced back to her host and paused, chewing a piece of bread slowly, surprised by the almost delicate way he fed himself. His deep chuckle told her that he knew she was watching him and she blushed.

* * *

Sherlock ate daintily. Just because he was cursed to inhabit a beastly form did not mean he had to become one in habit. He fed himself small bites, chewing slowly, careful not to spill food on himself. It had taken a long time to be able to feed himself without making a mess and he was disinclined to return to having more food hit the floor than his mouth. Normally, Sherlock waited until after sunset to eat, making it much easier on him, but that hadn't been an option if he wanted to dine with his guest, so he was careful.

He ate much more than he used to now, his hulking form burning energy faster than the slight human body he possessed in the moonlight. He caught her watching him, her mouth hanging open slightly, no doubt surprised at his daintiness as he ate. Sherlock chuckled. He had confused her without even meaning to, a pleasant thought.

He made no secret of observing her as she ate, more slowly than before, perhaps reminded of her own manners by his behavior.

She sat in silence and he brooded, wondering how to goad her into conversation. He cleared his throat, getting her to look up at him.

"How did you know what a microscope was?" he asked, the question having plagued him all day. He couldn't imagine how she'd learned of the device, as they were quite rare, though he was sure they would become more popular in time.

She seemed to think for a moment. Sherlock was distracted by the swipe of her pink tongue across her upper lip before she began to speak.

"I've always had an interest in the sciences, sir. Once, I went with my father to the city on the sea. While I was there, I went to the library and read as many books as I could. There was a man there who saw what I was reading and asked if I would like to see a wonder. My father accompanied me to the address the man gave me and I was shown into a room where the man was studying specimens under a microscope. He wouldn't let me touch it," she said wistfully, "but he didn't have to let me see it at all, so I am grateful." She took a sip of her wine.

"What were you reading that made him take notice?" Sherlock asked, his interest piqued. He'd always loved the sciences as well, devoting long hours to study.

"I was copying the anatomical drawings of Da Vinci into my notebook," she replied, and Sherlock thought he might faint from sheer want. He'd admired her spirit and her body, but he knew that the thing that was most arousing to him was a brilliant mind, and Sherlock was beginning to see that the girl he'd stumbled upon was no ordinary village wench.

"You were copying…" he repeated, staring at her, vaguely sure that his pupils had probably dilated, and hoped that she wouldn't notice.

"And the young men of your town," he said, suddenly angry at the thought of anyone capturing her interest other than himself. "Have you a lover?" he asked, watching her carefully. She flushed hotly, but shook her head.

"I'm afraid that no one is interested in a strange one such as I," she answered softly, and he felt a pang of pity for her. He knew well how difficult it was to be scientifically inclined in a world where the common folk still believed that allowing leeches to suck their blood would rid them of ailments.

"What else do you do, girl?" he asked, ignoring her frown at the moniker. He was avidly interested in her life now.

"Well, I have been studying decomposition of animal corpses after death," she replied, paling after the words escaped her lips. He sat there and stared at her for a moment.

"Marry me," he murmured, dazed, just low enough that she couldn't make out the words.

"Hmm?" she asked, and he cleared his throat quickly, changing the subject.

"The rooms in your wing are your own. There is a sunroom, a small study, the water room you saw earlier. Did you enjoy your bath, by the way?" he asked.

She gave a small nod and looked back down at her plate, tearing apart a piece of bread slowly. Sherlock gazed at her for a long moment, envisioning her disrobing and entering the cool water he so enjoyed. The next time he bathed, he would feel her presence there. Oh, how he'd love to take her there, on a moonlit night, the water sloshing against the glass tiles, her arse in the air as he bent her over and took her from behind, her hands tied behind her back, eyes covered.

He shook himself out of his thoughts.

He gulped down some wine to combat his suddenly dry throat and was thankful that his lower half was obscured by the table. When he'd finished it he was more under control and could think clearly.

"You will not venture out of your wing without my permission," he continued. "When I do not summon you, then you may amuse yourself there as you please. Of course, eventually, you will have run of the entire estate, with the exception of my wing." His lips turned up in a cruel smile as he paused.

"When you become mistress of the castle," he finished, relishing her gasp and the immediate drop of the piece of bread. He had already decided that he wasn't letting her go. In all his life, Sherlock had never met anyone half as fascinating as this girl was turning out to be, and he had no intentions of returning his new plaything.

"I won't!" she cried, her voice quivering with fear. "I won't! You'll have to kill me because I will never marry you!"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her in anger. Yes, he was in a beastly form, and he knew that she was afraid of him, but it still hurt his pride that she refused him so vehemently when he so ardently desired her.

"Make no mistake, Miss Hooper," he threatened, using her name for the first time. "You will be my bride. If not tomorrow," she shivered violently, "then the next day, or the next. I'm a patient man when I set my mind to it. And I never give up what I want."

She was obviously distraught by his words but tried valiantly to conceal her distress, choosing not to reply. When several minutes passed and she hadn't picked up any more food, he frowned.

"Eat," Sherlock commanded. She looked glumly down at her plate and half-heartedly picked up a piece of chicken. "Good girl," he encouraged. She drained her glass of wine and he stood to refill it, watching as she took several large gulps from the fresh glass.

When she tipped up her bowl of soup again, he grinned wickedly. Breaking the silence, Sherlock turned his body towards the girl.

"Fill my bowl with soup," he said, his gravelly voice cutting through the quiet room. She jumped slightly and looked at him, eyes wide. "Go on," he urged, handing her the bowl. She stood and circled the table, coming to his left side and picking up the ladle to do as he asked. When it was three quarters full, she made to set it next to his arm but he grabbed her wrist, nearly causing her to upset the hot liquid.

"No, no," he shook his head. "I cannot hold onto the bowl without spilling it. You'll have to feed it to me." He grinned at her startled reaction and turning his chair so that he was facing her. Maintaining eye contact, he reached out, settling his heavy paws on the back of her thighs, delighting in the shiver that went through her. He inhaled deeply as he pulled her between his legs and set his lips against the edge of the bowl, watching her closely. Her scent was intoxicating, her hair still slightly wet from the bath she'd had. Images of her naked and wet danced through his mind, driving him wild with lust. Molly bit her lip, and slowly tilted the bowl up, letting Sherlock drink from it.

It was delicious, as Mrs. Hudson's food always was. He sipped slowly, savoring the flavor, until he'd finished about half of the contents of the bowl. He gently tapped the back of the girl's thigh and she pulled the bowl away from his lips. He smiled at her and was about to tell her to set the bowl down when she beamed sweetly back at him and promptly turned the bowl over, dumping the hot liquid onto his thigh, where it ran down his leg to the floor.

Sherlock roared in pain and anger, leaning over as she backed away from him, flattening herself against the wall. He breathed heavily for a few moments, clutching his burned thigh, though grateful it hadn't been higher. He looked up and saw her staring at him, terror and perhaps some remorse in her eyes and he screamed at her to go to her quarters. She turned and ran from the room, leaving him alone.

He glowered to himself some more, angrily cursing the girl for bringing this pain upon him. He would punish her, he would…

Oh no.

Sherlock seized up, his body wracked with even greater pain. He stumbled to his feet, knowing that the sun had set, and ran as fast as he could, occasionally slamming into things, knocking items off of their pedestals in his hurry to get to his own part of the castle. He made it and slammed the door behind him, letting out an agonized roar of true pain as his body began to shift back to his human self.

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	9. Darkness

**Without the assistance of the lovely allthebellsinvenice (go read her stuff on AO3, it's HOT) this story would not be happening. She's absolutely brilliant and thinks of everything I stupidly leave out and corrects my god awful grammar. So yeah, I'm super grateful to her. I hope you enjoy.**

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Sherlock collapsed onto the floor, his voice a whimper and hoarse from his roars, which had rapidly altered to screams as his transformation progressed. Now fully human, he lay sprawled stomach down on the cool stone floor, his body feeling as if it had been torn apart and sewn back together by a blind man. He cursed himself for losing track of the time, for forgetting that he needed to be back in his chambers before sunset to ready himself for the anguish he endured each morning and night. He cursed the girl for distracting him and making him suffer. Sherlock vowed to himself that he would return the favor, though not in the way she would expect.

Tonight he would teach her the meaning of respect.

Sherlock staggered to his feet, his beastly clothing falling from his slight frame, leaving him nude as he tottered through the hall to his room. He braced himself against the small table that held his vices. Most mornings and nights, he would prepare himself for the torture of his transformation. He had long since learned that the pain would otherwise drive him mad. If he began ahead of time, Sherlock found that he could dull the pain by taking spirits, his favorite being brandy. The pain was still present, but much lessened when the alcohol flowed through his veins. Those times that he did not prepare though, a much stronger remedy was necessary.

Sherlock's shaky hands hovered over the candle wick, as he muttered to himself, hissing in pain. After a second, a tiny flame leapt from his forefinger to the wick, catching instantly. Though he had a light similar to the one in Molly's room in his own quarters, Sherlock often preferred the dancing flames of the candle when he was in pain. The glow was soothing, mesmerizing him with the shadows cast upon the walls. He hummed in satisfaction, and picked up a small earthen bowl, pinching a bit of the contents between his thumb and forefinger to transfer it to a glass at the other end of the table. He set the bowl back down and poured a bit of brandy into it then downed the contents in one gulp.

He knew he was playing with fire when he used _lachryma papaveris, _to give it its Latin name. Most folk called it the tears of the poppy, and Sherlock knew that it was nothing to be trifled with. He only used it when he was caught unaware by a transformation, having long since learned of its more distasteful effects on the body. In addition to the euphoria it induced, Sherlock found that in larger doses, it made him sleep for days on end, awakened only by the seizing of his body in another transformation. It also gave him an unquenchable thirst, among other, less potent, side effects.

He shook his head lazily as the drug made its way through his blood, coating his body in a sense of drowsy well-being. He smiled to himself, and stretched, feeling the last remnants of pain leave his tired limbs. Sherlock wavered, thinking of how well he could sleep with the poppy in his veins but his anger swelled again as he caught sight of his thigh in the candlelight, a vivid red mark marring the pale flesh where the hot liquid had burned him.

The girl needed to pay for her defiance.

* * *

Molly slammed the door shut to her room, her hands shaking, physical proof of the adrenaline coursing through her. She ran one hand through her long, unbound hair, cursing her impulsiveness. She knew there would be hell to pay for her actions and she was terrified to think of what that might entail. A million different scenarios came to mind, none of which were pleasant to envision. She finally lay down on the bed when she realized that her breaths were coming too shallow and too fast, fearing she might faint.

She sat bolt upright a moment after, clutching a hand to her throat as she heard distant roars of pain and fury echo through the castle. She clambered under the heavy covers, knowing that they wouldn't protect her, but feeling a bit safer with them around her. A few minutes passed and the roars died down, though Molly would swear that she heard human screams as well. She sprinted to the door and held her ear to it, but heard nothing more and dismissed it as a trick of her mind. Turning back to the room, Molly quickly observed her nighttime routine, the last of the light fading from her chamber as she did so. By the time she changed to her nightdress it was fully dark, and though she'd attempted to rouse the light above her, it remained stubbornly so. She felt her way to her bed and climbed in, pulling the covers up as far as she could without feeling as if she was going to suffocate.

She gave up trying to rest a half hour later, throwing back the covers in a huff. Every noise, every slight rustle of the wind through the trees outside put her on edge and she couldn't calm down enough to fall asleep. She lay there, staring up into the darkness, waiting impatiently for morning, as she was sure that she would find no rest on this particular night.

A creaking noise in the direction of the vanity made her catch her breath, holding it, desperate to not make a sound. It stopped abruptly, then began again, and Molly realized that she'd just heard a door open, then close. She'd known that there was a servant's passage, but even through the panic that welled up in her mind, Molly wondered how the Beast could fit through such a small space. She opened her mouth to scream only to have the sound abruptly muffled by a hand over her mouth. A human hand.

* * *

Sherlock would freely admit that there were some aspects of the Beast that he appreciated. At the moment, it was the enhanced vision in the dark. He saw the girl open her mouth to yell and darted forward, covering her lips with his hand to still her voice. At the same moment, he muttered almost silently under his breath and a distant roar was heard. He grinned to himself, pleased that he'd remembered that particular spell off the top of his head. He whispered it again and another roar was heard, though, if he wasn't mistaken, it came from a different part of the castle. Not that the frightened girl below would notice of course. The important thing was that she heard them, as it would make it considerably easier for her to swallow the lie he was about to feed her.

"Hush, little one," he whispered, just loud enough for her to hear. "Don't let the Beast hear you." Her eyes slid shut at the sound of his soothing baritone voice, though she still shook with fear. He took his hand away from her mouth, knowing that it wouldn't actually matter if she screamed or not, that there was no Beast to come running, but satisfied that she believed there was and wouldn't shout.

"Who are you?" she asked the darkness, searching for him in it. He was thankful for the lack of moonlight and the thick drapes across her window. Mrs. Hudson had been in, he saw, for the drapes had been open that morning.

"Who are you?" he replied. "You're in my castle, it's only fair for you to identify yourself first."

"Your castle?" she repeated, her brow furrowing in puzzlement. "I thought that the Beast was Lord of the castle."

"He took it from me," Sherlock lied easily. Though, in a sense, it wasn't a falsehood, more of a half-truth. "He stole it from me years ago and now holds me prisoner within its walls." He whispered again under his breath and another roar was heard. "Do you hear? He searches for me now. He has lost me, and cannot find me. Will you tell, little one? Will you tell him that I have been here with you?"

He could see her hesitate, weighing her options.

"No," she whispered. "I am his prisoner as well, and I have no love for the Beast. I will not breathe a word of your presence," she blushed, "in my chambers."

"Ah little one, you are a treasure for keeping my secret so readily," he grinned. "I too have no love for the Beast, but he rules and we obey, do we not?" he added, a bitter note creeping into his tone as he thought of how firmly he was ruled by his transformations.

She was quiet at that, no doubt remembering her defiance of earlier. She did not choose to mention it, to his amusement, though he ruefully rubbed his leg as he thought of it. It would no doubt be tender for at least a day.

"You never told me who you are," she said after a while.

He chuckled. "Who I am is not who I used to be," he answered truthfully. "I was once prince of the castle, but now I am only your prince."

The girl gazed sadly at him, and he was almost afraid that she could see him, a terrifying thought. Sherlock knew that she could never see his human form, for if she did, if anyone did, the one who had cursed him would know and come to wreck her vengeance on both him and whoever was unlucky enough to catch sight of him.

As if following his train of thought, her next question was if she could see him.

"I am sorry little one, but you may not."

"Why?" she inquired, a pleading note in her voice.

"Because, I am cursed. If anyone lays eyes on me, they will perish." Once again, it was only a half lie.

"Oh." She was disappointed, the sides of her mouth dropping into a frown.

"You may touch me if you like," he said before thinking. "And I shall describe myself to you."

Sherlock cursed his foolishness as she sat up eagerly, reaching out to the darkness in front of her. He back away slightly.

"Unh uh," he chided, taking her small hands in his and lowering them to the bed. A though came to him and he smiled roguishly. "First, you must hear it all." He licked his lips in anticipation. "You may touch me, and I will tell you about myself. But," he paused, his grin widening. "Then you shall return the favor."

He watched her freeze and chew on her bottom lip in a nervous gesture. A flash of arousal shot through his body at that sight, and he had to calm himself.

"All right," she assented quietly and sat up onto her knees, facing him.

He picked her hands up and brought them slowly to his face, cupping them gently in his own as he set them against his jaw. He dropped his hands then and let her tentatively explore the lines of his face for a moment before he began to speak.

"Shall I describe myself as I said?" he asked.

"Yes please," she said, her voice soft.

He focused on her delicate fingers running over his skin then spoke, his voice pitched low as his arousal grew.

"My face is unusual, handsome, but in a different way than most." He brought his hands up to cover hers once more. "Prominent cheekbones," he said, guiding her fingers to them. "A firm jaw," he swept her fingers across that as well. "Eyes like the sea after a storm, blue and grey and green, flecks of amber in the sunlight." He smiled and folded one of her hands to bring her forefinger to trace the defined cupid's brow of his upper lip. "A lush mouth," he whispered, opening her hand and pressing a kiss to her palm.

Her panting gasp went straight to his cock, which had been growing harder with each brush of her fingers across his oversensitive skin. He brought her hands up to tangle in his hair.

"It's dark, a rich brown, and quite curly," he said as her fingers wrapped around a lock and pulled slightly, making him growl. "No no," he scolded gently, pulling her fingers away.

Next, he guided her hands down to his throat, then his shoulders. Sherlock let go of her then, curious to see what she would do with her little freedom. She hesitated, biting her lip, before sweeping the tips of her fingers over his collarbone, pressing lightly on the protruding bone. Sherlock sucked his bottom lip in his mouth to keep in the groan that threatened to escape as she continued touching him, flattening her hands on his skin, feeling the firm muscles of his upper body.

"I'm tall," he whispered, "and slim, but strong. Lithe. My skin is pale, smooth, like porcelain."

Sherlock's eyes had closed on their own as her hands moved to ghost over his chest, gently tracing each individual rib as she swept her hands down his sides. He wondered if she would touch him so lightly when he was inside her, or if her grip would strengthen, nails biting into his skin as he fucked her.

He was pulled abruptly out of his fantasy but the sound of her snort. He opened his eyes to find her fighting laughter, her hands retreating to hold her own sides as she doubled over giggling.

"Wha- what?" he stammered, not understanding what was happening. He watched dumbfounded as she gasped for breath, her face reddening from the lack of oxygen.

"You," she managed between chuckles. "You're so," more giggles, "vain!"

Sherlock stiffened. "Vain?" he repeated quietly.

She nodded, still laughing. "Vain! Arrogant! Conceited! Could you even hear yourself? Who describes their eyes as being "like the sea after a storm?" She collapsed to the bed, tears in her eyes from the force of her laughter.

He narrowed his gaze at her. So what if he waxed poetic about himself? It had been so long since someone was allowed to see his true form, didn't he have the right to exaggerate a bit after all the time he had suffered in silence?

Sherlock stalked over to the window as the girl gained control over herself, wiping the moisture from her eyes and peering out at the space where he had been. There was silence for a long moment, then she put her hand out abruptly, feeling around in the darkness.

"Are you still there? Prince?" she whispered, bracing herself on her left hand as she leaned out from the bed and swiped her other arm through the air in a horizontal motion.

"I am," he replied from his position across the room. Her head turned in his direction and he could barely make out that she was looking back and forth, unable to see him at all, while he was only unable to make out the details of her face due to the darkness.

"Why have you moved?" she asked, still searching for him.

He turned his back on her and felt around on the dark floor, searching for the cord of rope that he knew would be there, hidden under the heavy fabric of the drapes. He hadn't planned to restrain her, not tonight, but she'd angered him with her mockery and he was not in a forgiving mood after the events of the evening. His hand closed on the short piece of rope used to hold back the drapes and let the sunshine in. He felt around for the other side and grinned, pleased, when he found it.

"I thought that you were finished, considering the volume of your laughter," he sniffed, turning his back to her again even though she couldn't see it. He was counting on her nature to compel her to apologize for her amusement, and he wasn't disappointed.

"No, no, I'm sorry, just," he turned to face her and saw her hand drop to the bed and her shoulders slump. "Come back, my prince," she finished in a whisper.

He hesitated a moment but couldn't resist going back to her, hovering in front of her, taking in the dejected downturn of her pretty little mouth. He couldn't wait to have that mouth wrapped around his cock. Now wasn't the time, he reminded himself, though his cock hardened again at the thought.

"It's all right," he whispered, brushing his fingers across her cheek gently. Sherlock watched her through heavy lids, admiring the blush that lit up her cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes. She didn't bother to hide any of her reactions to him, thinking that he was as blind in the dark as she. He growled deep in his throat as her hands tentatively reached towards him once more, intent on continuing their journey down his body. His stomach muscles rippled at her feather-light exploration of his skin. He saw the exact second she realized that he wore no trousers, and her half-delighted, half-frightened expression nearly undid him.

She reached his hips and he could stand it no more. Surging up he pinned her arms to her sides and his deep voice rumbled, "That is enough, little beauty."

* * *

Molly gasped, her mouth falling open as she stared up into the darkness at the space where the stranger occupied. He was leaned over her, the weight of her upper body combined with his tight grip around her wrists keeping her completely immobilized. She struggled to slow her breathing, realizing that her pants were audible in the quiet room. He shifted to lie fully on top of her the blanket separating their overheated bodies and she froze, feeling the evidence of his arousal.

Molly was afraid. She fully recognized that she was at the mercy of this stranger who'd appeared so mysteriously in her room. Her body was betraying her though, the excitement of it making her skin prickle with anticipation. She had never been more thankful for the cover of pitch black darkness.

She was terrified, and yet had never felt more free than she did trapped beneath the man's lanky frame. The cover of night hid her blushing face and pleased smiles, though she was sure he noticed her tell-tale gasps of breath as she writhed under him. His scent as a sweet smoky one mixed with the smell of the forest and, if she wasn't mistaken, she also smelled spirits on his breath. He spoke again and she could hear the smile in his voice.

"Now, now, my little beauty, turn and turnabout is fair play," he said as he slowly shifted, backing away from her once more, leaving her bereft of his touch. She turned her head towards him, peering into the dark, searching for any movement, but all was quiet for a moment. Then suddenly, his hands were on her skin again, snaking their way under the covers to tickle her feet. She inhaled sharply and pulled her legs up, clutching them to her chest.

He made a tsk noise with his tongue and she imagined him shaking his head at her.

"Oh what I wouldn't give to see those brown eyes sparkle when I touch you," he purred, and Molly's brow furrowed in confusion.

"How do you know I have brown eyes?" she inquired of the darkness, and was greeted with silence.

"How do you know what I look like, if you are imprisoned here?" she asked again, her voice louder.

His fingers slid through her long hair before he replied. "I have seen you, though you cannot see me."

Molly jerked back, clambering across the bed in an attempt to put distance between herself and the intruder. "You've tricked me! You have no need to touch me if you already know my appearance!"

His hands settled on her ankles with a vicelike grip and he pulled her back towards him, her nightdress riding up to expose her hips to her navel.

"Everything has its price, little one," he growled, his mouth so close to her ear that she could feel the warmth of his breath. "You wanted to touch me. Now lay back and pay your debts."

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